


Rules of Simp-lification

by Whimgenuity



Category: Projekt Melody - Fandom
Genre: Gratuitous Smut, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:20:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26481064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whimgenuity/pseuds/Whimgenuity
Summary: Melody lapses into a daydream with predictable consequences.
Kudos: 7





	Rules of Simp-lification

When the song at last dies down there's nothing left but silence. Or what might have been silence, were it not for the omnipresent humming of machinery. She could queue up another song to drown out the hum. She doesn't. A victim of a profound sense of ennui, she itches for a novel distraction while held prisoner by the certainty that there's nothing new left in the world to scratch it. Even ready access to a computer and a working internet connection proves no match for the inertia. In her mind, this is it, this is the end of all things: she can practically feel the force of entropy at last gaining the upper hand over the universe. Heat death is sure to be setting in any moment now.

It doesn't. Melody's resulting sigh rolls over her lips half-heartedly and then it too is lost to the infernal humming. Some inkling of self-preservation at last kicks in and she bellies up to the keyboard, fingers poised in home position. With the ease of a professional she rattles off a series of disparate terms into search bars across multiple sites and browser tabs. She casts her net wide, dragging up fetishes en masse with gusto. Her catch proves too big to be contained on a single monitor and the momentary joy of hedonistic abandon starts to subside.

Click. Click. Click. Click. The sound of browser tabs laying down their lives at their creator's whim.

The videos are too long, so she decides to skip ahead. But now the scene is moments from its peak and she's convinced that she's missing the good part, so she goes further back on the timeline. Now it's too far back and she'll be forced into a holding pattern until it reaches the good stuff. Forward again, just in time to watch the jizz splatter across a waiting face. Frustration sets in. A climax without context is no good; gotta earn that O face.

Click.

Different videos but always the same story. She gives up. Static images treat her no better, however. Images of gaping orifices, dripping fluids, and naked flesh spread from monitor to monitor prove equally devoid of narrative and emotional investment. On any other day there'd be a spark, that _je ne sais quoi_ that'd send her fingers marching proudly south of her bellybutton. Today's just not her day, though. Folders within folders get opened and every file extension that's not the sole domain of developers gets called to action. Videos, images, animations, sound files, and even flowery walls of text flash on screen for scant moments in a flurry of activity that ultimately proves fruitless.

Enough is enough, Projekt Melody has lost her chill. The decision is made. The bargain is struck. She kicks off against her desk and sends her gaming chair rolling backwards some inches. With a deep breath. she prepares to tap into an ill-advised fantasy that's lurked in the back of her mind from the beginning.

Life has some universals to it that go beyond just death and taxes. Everyone has a few forbidden cravings buried underneath the topsoil of civilized behavior. Sometimes it's strong feelings for someone that should have long since died out. Or an unsuspecting individual that has been fucked, tasted, and/or reduced to continuous orgasms on such a regular basis that they'd be owed thousands in back pay if fantasy ever became reality. If they're really lucky they might even know your name.

But what if they knew? What if an individual knew, beyond a shadow of doubt, that they were accepted legal tender in spank banks the world over? Melody's breathing evens out and she closes her eyes. She has a question of her own that needs answering: _What would they do to me if they could?_

All of those people that tune into the Projekt Melody streams across multiple platforms each week. Hours upon hours of streams, some of which are just friendly conversations with her followers. They show up to spend time with someone that's wholly unobtainable for them and yet the gratitude flows in as tips, donations, memes, fan art, and more besides. Their gratitude has cultivated a thriving community that's built on the bedrock of a mutual admiration for her. And there's a big dumpster in the sky for all the Lushes and Hushes that have come undone. Truly a love that's felt one tip at a time while the hours melt away with the good vibrations. Truth be told, they might stick around for the sweet and goofy personality but they come to see her cum. Again, and again, and again, and again, and...

Thinking about it has taken her breath away, that's a pretty clear indication that she's on the right track. Nothing beats that feeling of having hundreds or thousands of people that are definitely searing every curve and inch of your naked skin into their memory for future use. On any other day she'd be able to ride that wave to a photo finish but she gets the feeling that it's going to take that extra bit of dedication to get there today. Which means that it's high time that she indulges in one of her worst-kept secrets, even if she knows it's probably not a great idea.

_I want their hands on me. Touch me, make me feel the love._

While it's a thrilling little lie to tell herself, she knows in her heart of hearts that it's not love that she's looking for. But the thought of being made to 'feel the love' is still enough to cause her pulse to quicken. Mel knows she'd be no match for the attentions of the Science Team members, not when they have the advantage of overwhelming numbers. With so many of them and just one of her, why, they'd be able to do as they please with her and she'd be powerless to stop them. Perhaps they'd pass her around like a cheap piece of meat...no, that doesn't play. Her fans would come up with something much more creative than that. After all, everyone knows that the Science Team always does their research.

* * *

A single touch sends shivers dancing up and down her spine. The fingers rest gently on her calf, pressing down ever so slightly as if to confirm physical contact has been made. Then, just like that, the pressure is gone. Before she can even wonder what that was about she feels something tug on her foot. Perplexed, Melody peeks into the darkness under her desk in search of the culprit. What she finds is that her sneaker is being coaxed off her foot by a pair of hands. She wants to say something, anything, but curiosity gets the better of her so she stays silent. Instead she watches the hands go about their work and can't help but marvel at how they treat her sneaker with the utmost care when they set it off to the side. Then the process repeats and her other sneaker is put next to its twin with equal reverence.

The situation has her experiencing technical difficulties. So many questions about how it's possible or how it works or where the hands came from that she doesn't know where to start. A stranger in her own body for now, she resigns herself to observing until the pieces fall in place. Mercifully, it doesn't take long before her thigh-highs join her sneakers on the floor. As the cool air meets her newly-exposed legs she feels pinpricks of anticipation, and suddenly, it strikes her as quite funny that this stranger's heart should be hammering in her chest so hard.

That lasts until a second pair of hands emerges from somewhere under her desk, hovering in place like a naked threat. These slim fingers with their bright, bright red nails waste no time in wrapping around her bare ankle. Although the grip is firm, it's not so firm as to be painful. Not yet, anyway.

The first pair of hands then reaches out and delicately guides Melody's foot, and by extension, her leg, up and over the armrest of her chair. From there, one hand caresses the top of her foot while the other rests on her ankle before sliding up her leg in one smooth motion. This proves to not be an entirely unwelcome sensation.

With its trip across her now-tingling inner thigh finished, the mischievous hand loops some fingers inside her shorts and begins the arduous task of pulling them off too. Meanwhile its partner down below continues to caress her foot with such lavish attention as to be borderline worship. Even if it's an odd sensation to her it does still feel kind of nice. She reaches down with the intent of providing some token resistance but in an act of open betrayal her own hand instead crawls under her shorts while they yet remain around her hips.

An old tidbit of knowledge is written anew in the droplets of sweat that dot her brow. The knowledge that being touched feels really good. Flesh against flesh. Skin on skin. That peculiar warmth of another body pressed against your own and how it's a little too warm but not enough for you to pull away. Skinship can be intoxicating. Melody seems to echo this sentiment as she digs the heel of her palm against her mound not once, not twice, but three times while trying to resist the urge to touch herself directly.

Alas, the flesh is willing and the spirit is weak.

The pair of shorts stretches and contracts from the telltale motions of her wrist. Beneath said shorts the pads of her fingers rub in slow, careful circles around her clit without ever directly touching it. Enough to keep the engine running without going in for the proverbial kill. Because why not see where this is heading?

* * *

Minds don't really break. It's a common misconception. In terms of chemistry, sure. In the case of psychiatric disorders, absolutely. Shit happens. What doesn't happen, however, is a level of sexual gratification that reduces an individual to being a willing sex slave for the rest of their natural existence. If anything, you do right by someone in the bedroom to the extent that they agree to an encore performance with a pinch more depravity on that next go-around. Because lust is to inhibition as a graduate is to job applications, a matter of degrees.

Melody's looking to graduate too, and with the legion of hands working together to stimulate her entire body into an erogenous zone, she's getting close. Some fingers trace elaborate designs up and down her inner thighs with a gentle touch while the others sink their fingertips down into the meaty flesh for a proper groping. Somewhere along the line a sturdy set of arms has wrapped around her midsection and is holding her in an embrace that's a little too possessive to be called a hug. Any pretense at resistance or modesty is discarded as she shamelessly stuffs her fingers into her pussy over and over and over again.

_They can see it, I don't mind. Please look at me. It's okay, it's okay, they've...they've seen it before._

It's hitting different than a typical CB stream. What little privacy is afforded by streaming has vanished and that's a weird thought to have, given the nature of those streams. Sight and sound really take on new dimensions with a live studio audience it seems. And maybe a part of her is hoping that her fans don't mind the scent of sweaty Mel. They don't seem to mind the sound of her ragged breathing. Quite the contrary, as they seem to bask in how just for a moment, the thinnest of moments, her breath catches in this near-climax cadence. A cadence that her followers know well.

To live to see the day that her loyal fans band together to show her an unforgettable time, who'd have thought? That's why, even while luxuriating in all sorts of pleasurable sensations, what she cherishes most is the way that her heart feels full to bursting with joy. The love that she shares with her fans is genuine and real, to the point that she worries from time to time that she's not articulating it properly. Maybe it's not romantic – and maybe it can't be – but that love and concern for their well-being is the real thing and always will be.

So her heart is full to overflowing, which, conveniently, puts it on the same page as her snatch. And said snatch is awfully busy with her middle and ring fingers slamming in and out of it with a vigor that has her juices _positively_ drooling onto the chair. As she inches closer to cumming the wet smacking noise of her self-love drowns out even that damnable humming of machinery and makes it clear that when she gets there it's going to be quite the show.

Under normal circumstances she'd say something. Perhaps she'd count down to the orgasm that's mere approach already has her whole body quaking and has started her pussy convulsing wildly around her fingers. In reality, right now she's capable of remembering a select few obscenities in even fewer languages and Mel's not in the right frame of mind to verbalize any of them. Body language will have to do. On the cusp of cumming her brains out and feeling so, so loved, a critical detail escapes her.

Thirty odd seconds away from utter bliss.

Her mouth moving, lips forming words that don't yet exist.

Apathy as the shorts finally get pulled off.

Ambivalent that it exposes her wet, glistening slit.

She's gonna get hers'

Until a hand, previously occupied with rubbing her soft lips and occasionally dragging a finger on the tip of her tongue, swoops down and seizes her by the wrist. With strength and precision, it forcibly extricates her fingers from her pussy. Stunned, she swivels her head to the side in time to watch as a tongue, soft and clever, slithers over her fingers and licks them clean. This should have caused a paroxysm of raw lust, having watched someone derive such intense pleasure from lapping up her juices. But instead the beginnings of a thought enters her dazed and confused mind. Both of her arms are meanwhile jerked straight up, hands clamped around her thin wrists, and held in place above her head. She's unable to finish the job.

As her white whale of an orgasm recedes back into the murky waters of the hypothetical she remembers what she should have never forgot: the Science Team is equal turns compassionate and sadistic. They're edging her, the bastards.

* * *

Maybe minds can break. How long has it been? Minutes? Hours? Days? Maybe it doesn't matter. The gentle and encouraging touches from earlier are but a fading memory, having long since been usurped by calculated savagery. Nothing is holy. Melody is manhandled like a cheap whore, pinned to the floor by a cage of hands while others ravage her without hesitation. Virtually everywhere there can be fingers, there are fingers. Lying on her back with her legs held aloft and knees bent, her captors have ensured easy access to plundering her backdoor. They spread her ass wide open, they grope the soft cheeks, and they plug her up. Knuckle-deep inside her butt, fingers surge in and out with suggestive noises; she's tight enough for there to be the faintest popping sound each time her hole is suddenly vacated.

In the corner of her vision her gaming chair towers over her, a fitting sight to remind her how far she's fallen literally and metaphorically this day. The sight of it ignites her wildest anxieties and she imagines a possible scenario in which the Science Team is going to eventually drag her into the shadows beneath her desk. She will be pulled down into some underworld dimension where she'll have to spend the rest of her days servicing rock-hard cocks and burying her face in eager pussies. They'll have her every way imaginable and it will never, ever be enough to keep them satisfied.

Or as she likes to think of it, the good ending. But if she wants to get the good ending then she'll have to survive the current ordeal.

It will be no small feat, given that it ends only when her fans say it does. There are some anomalies in their behavior that Mel's noticed. Like, despite the intense sex acts being performed on her, no one has whipped out a dick or even started masturbating under their clothes, which is a bit of a bummer. They also refuse to interact with or otherwise stimulate her honeypot. She can go to town on herself, rubbing that clit like a sexfiend and fingerbanging herself until spots dance in her vision but they take no action except to intervene right before she can cum.

Everywhere else, though, they continue to make a complete mess of her. Case in point being a fixation on her nipples so dramatic that it's taught her new things about her own body. The Science Team member that's so enthusiastically pawing at her breasts is a goddamn virtuoso. Relentless in their pursuit of teaching her how to derive pleasure from her nipples alone, they pull out all the stops. First they coyly toy with the areola, skimming their fingertips from the outside and gradually spiralling inward. Once at the base of her nipples they pinch them between thumb and forefinger and then pull. As the nipples stretch, they ache and ache, the pressure diminishing until it's gone. After which her breasts snap back to resting position, left wobbling afterwards for fractions of a second.

Following a brief break the loop will start again. Initial executions of the loop felt foreign and borderline painful with the stretching and over-the-top teasing, but it's a different story now that Melody has learned to look forward to its culmination. She lets out a low moan in the lead-up to that dull ache morphing into a sharper pain. Her 'teacher' rewards these moans with excruciatingly patient twists of her nipples that leave her to languish for what feels like an eternity. This ongoing interplay of pain and pleasure might just awaken something in her.

Definitely not the worst thing being done to her, though. No, the greatest indignity is a running joke that on this blessed day has transcended into reality. Forget the foot worship. Move past the titty fondling. Leave behind the bootyhole excavation. Embrace the avant-garde and acknowledge the peak performance that is handholding. Amid the sights and sounds of the sex acts one brave individual has sat down beside her and has taken her hand into theirs. Fingers interlocked and palms pressed together, neither Mel nor the fan minds the sweat. Overwhelmed with the cascade of feedback coming from her body it's nice to feel settled by the simple gesture. Every so often they squeeze her hand twice in a row to make sure she knows it's not by mistake or by reflex.

It's reassuring and wholesome but something about it amplifies what she feels tenfold. Everything else going on lends it a specific context, as if it's a means for that person to reaffirm to Melody that the awful (and lovely) things they're doing to her come from a place of deep, deep affection for her. That may be why it causes her to stammer. Might explain the flush in her cheeks, too. It's an innocent gesture that brings the situation into sharp relief: these things are done to her, for her. The Science Team will not be satisfied if she just acknowledges their lust, no, it won't be enough until she confirms their love as well.

Grinning from ear to ear despite her best efforts, Melody is profoundly grateful to have been given the chance to meet them, to get to know them, and to be a part of their lives. But she can't verbalize any of that right now, so to this, she responds the only way she knows how.

By giggling nervously.

* * *

"Please, um, please, please let me...let me...cum..."

Her words fall on deaf ears and for the umpteenth time her hand is yanked away from the critical business of touching herself. This, this is domination. Not to mention it's a prison of her own making, given that on numerous occasions she has intimated that this is the sort of thing that gets her wetter than a Louisiana summer. Yet another 'be careful what you wish for' anecdote to add to the pile.

Melody still has some fight left in her, though. Although it takes tremendous effort, she bucks and rolls her hips to try to coax out the last bit of stimulation she needs from the hands that are holding her down. A valiant effort but no dice. Chest heaving from the exertion, she's left with little else to do but meditate on what her fans want from her. Aside from the sex, of course. What secret condition hasn't been met? Her preferred fuck hole is ultra-sensitive and sopping wet, coated as it is in a sticky mixture of saliva and love juices. A mixture that, left to its own devices, continuously dribbles down the lips and onto the floor. Even the gentle caress of airflow over her mound is enough to raise goosebumps at this point.

Seriously, she might cum on insertion if someone would be a proper gentleman and just stick it in her. Back or front, she's in no position to be picky.

There wouldn't be any resistance either; it'd slide right in. How amazing would it feel to squeeze something that size into her cramped confines? It'd certainly be ideal conditions to pump those hips and get a taste of what it's like to fuck her raw. To savor the sight of her squirming on the tip right before it gets thrust into the hilt again, her ass bouncing from the force of it. The real prize would be the opportunity to blow such a big, fat load inside her that it overflows and starts running down her legs. Yeah, she'd like that. And she'd like to dip a finger or two in that creamy mess and stir it around, drunk on the knowledge that she rocked someone's world to its core.

With nothing better to do, she begins to imagine it.

_Pound it inside, piston it in and out of her to a loose rhythm. Game the angle and depth to reduce her to gasping fits of goodness. It's all in the hips. Wipe away any notion of her taking control back; she doesn't need control of you and she definitely doesn't need control of herself. Pin her down and grind into her g-spot until she's howling. When the moment is right, make her feel the love as spurt after spurt of gooey semen splatters inside her greedy holes. Feel how she clamps down on you while it happens like a good little slut. Most importantly: don't even think that once is enough._

This is what she wants.

_Not packing that kind of equipment? Won't be an issue since her fragile delusions of control can also be crushed with agile fingers and an eager tongue. Get her on your wavelength with a soft touch and plenty of foreplay. Run your fingers through her hair and let your hot breath spill over the nape of her neck. Be patient. Whisper sweet nothings to her before you nibble on an ear. Take your time. Brush your lips down her neck and let your fingers trail down her chest to her navel. If she turns her head towards you, kiss her._

This is what she wants.

_Flustered and craving more, she'll open her legs for you and she'll do it with a smile. Repay her kindness with diligent use of your tongue. Lay it flat over her lower lips and then drag it upwards from the bottom to top with the patience of a saint. Linger for a while and take pains to slurp up her nectar. End every repetition by flicking her clit with the tip of your tongue. No need to be afraid of slobbering all over the place, that's part of the fun. Don't stop unless she says so and don't you dare speed up (or slow down) when she's getting close. When she pulls your head in closer, keep steady and you'll get to enjoy your reward as she cums all over your face, her petite form twitching and shaking in euphoria. It might take a few minutes but you'll never forget her sweet taste._

This is what she wants.

_That's what I want._

Driven half-mad by these thoughts, reality and fantasy have begun to blend together into a cloying haze of lust without beginning or end. Trapped in this perpetual state of delayed gratification, Melody's perception of what is and what isn't throws open the door to a multitude of possibilities. Among those myriad possibilities is the answer that she's been searching for and it springs unbidden from her lips as soon as she finds it.

"Please, Science Team, frick me up."

Her voice wobbles up an octave near the end of her plea but those magic words do the trick. Acting as one, the army of hands lifts her off the floor and puts her back on her feet. Then she's nudged down into a squatting position where, at last, all hands let go of her. Having spent hours being held, stroked, and massaged, the absence of another person's touch has wrapped around to become a novel experience again. Melody immediately hates it. Fate is kind, however, and it's not something she has to endure for long. In short order a loud crack reverberates through the room with a red-hot pain right on its heels. A little jolt of pleasure causes her to involuntarily clench her thighs in not-so-secret delight.

Strictly speaking, a squat isn't optimal positioning for spanking but the Science Team is nothing if not tenacious. One by one, the hands latch back onto her body and no longer does she feel alone in a room. A spare hand takes her by the wrist and guides it back down between her legs. Mel needs no instruction on what this means. With a grunt she works her fingers inside, spreading and flexing them as she pushes deeper in. The spanking session is meanwhile in full swing and the way that her ass jiggles after each spank only invites further abuse. Angry red handprints mar the otherwise flawless skin on both cheeks but do provide a nice bit of contrast. The little masochistic encouragement is fuel for her fire, and, oh, what a blaze it is. There can be no issue finding the sweet spots when everything has become a sweet spot.

Rivulets of sweat run down her back while she struggles to return again to the cusp of climax. Lewd squelching noises arise during this fine frenzy but they don't faze her, not now that she's come to terms with what it is that her fans want. And what they want is for her to feel marvelous, so if the sounds coming from her fingers plunging into her sloppy situation are a part of that process then they'll pay it no mind. Moving as if possessed, she rolls her hips to eke out that extra bit of feel-good. There are, of course, consequences for going into overtime, chief of which is an outstandingly sore wrist. To stop now would be nothing short of sacrilege but that's a cold comfort to a girl that really just wants to cum her brains out and be done with it.

Fingers run through her hair while she goes to town on herself with increasing urgency. Some fans twine the azure locks 'round their knuckles and rub a thumb against the captured strands to admire both its softness and sheen. These curious and exploratory touches form a nice counterpoint to the general debauchery that has led her here. It's something that new lovers might do while still obsessed with discovering every facet of each other's body. 

Another small token of their appreciation for Melody that's soon co-opted for nefarious purposes. Not long after someone gets the idea to grab a handful of her hair near the roots and pull. Yes, that respectful touching and exploration before was nice but this vigorous hair-pulling is even better. Now is not the time for candid discovery, no. Her sole desire is to be _thoroughly_ used with a callous disregard for her needs or wants, to be reduced to something that gets fucked by virtue of being within arm's reach and possessing multiple holes tight enough to wring out every last gloopy drop of semen from their overstuffed balls.

She doesn't want to be fucked because she's Projekt Melody.

She wants to be fucked because she's there.

She wants to be the outlet for their pent-up carnal desires.

Cloaked in the glow of lightning and thunder's roar, the end arrives with seconds to spare. The gift of fire is a warm, crackling energy that pours into her chest until she feels light-headed and dizzy. Her mythology becomes Prometheus, in chains. Without warning the wave of sensations drops down to her center and doubles, then doubles again, before it finally pops. Blurry yet electric, it courses through her being and blooms outward in every direction. Washes down her arms, into her hands, and settles in her fingertips. Erupts upwards through her breasts, into her nipples, and then forks into both shoulders. From head to toe this restless energy seethes within her, becomes her.

Back arched and toes curled, her body jerks uncontrollably as ecstasy falls upon her. Without warning or ceremony, she topples over into the waiting pairs of hands that carefully lay her down on the floor. Melody breathes hard. And although the floor is wet and sticky from the amount of girl cum that just gushed out of her, she manages to roll over onto her side to survey the damage. It's quite the splash zone; she's proud. Freezing up, there's one last great shudder before she falls still and it's over.

Covering her face with the back of her hand, Mel chuckles heartily and she says the first thing that comes to mind.

"Worth it. You guys are the best."

Sure, she doubts that she'll ever walk again and she'll _definitely_ never hear the end of this from the Science Team but it's one hell of an afterglow. A part of her hopes that the dumb grin plastered on her face stays forever but eventually it tapers off too. Blinking away the tears in her eyes, she sees now that the room is empty. Mel heaves a sigh, well aware that the fantasy always had an expiration date. It's a little sad to be alone again and lying in the warm, if spectacular, aftermath of her climax.

She should really check her phone. How many notifications will be waiting for her? Does she have a stream later today? Oh, and she needs to get back to that representative about the merchandising opportunity. She sighs again then closes her eyes. Good things don't last, that's why it pays to always be on the lookout for more. The Next Good Thing™ could be around the next curve in the road. While contemplating this, the beginnings of a mischievous smile crease the corners of her lips. Maybe a person can make their own luck. Maybe a person doesn't have to wait. Can't a girl say goodbye?

When she opens her eyes again there's a forest of legs in her field of view. But before Melody can utter so much as a single word of her farewell she hears a funny sound. Soft and breezy, a lot like...like clothes hitting the floor. Like dozens of pants unzipping in near unison. Like shoes getting kicked off feet.

Like an army of thirsty fans that just finished warming up for the main event.

"No, no, no there's so much I have to say! No, hold on! Let me just...oh fuck, look at the size of that thing..."

Somewhere in all of the commotion is the humming of machinery, drowned out and easily forgotten. 

* * *


End file.
